He stepped closer and placed a gloved finger on her lips. Notes of expensive cologne reached her nostrils, the smell sickly as opposed to inviting. Nothing like the intoxicating scent of Ross’ skin.
“Do not answer now. Take a few days. Imagine a life of contentment in Bath. I can make you happy, Miss Brown, if only you will let me.”
Being cocooned in Ross Sandford’s arms was the only place she felt real joy.
Estelle nodded. When she returned home, she would pen a note explaining that she could not possibly accept.
An unexpected grunt from behind made her jump.
Someone grabbed her jacket and pulled her backwards. She opened her mouth on a scream, but a chubby hand smothered the sound. The sharp tip of a blade pressed into her back as the smell of ale and rotten breath breezed past her cheek.
The heavens opened then, and the rain pelted the pavement in an angry roar.
“Give me your purse, Monsieur, and then I shall let this pretty lady go.” The thug spoke in a thick French accent, too deep to be Faucheux. Was he one of Faucheux’s men?
Lord help them. Mr Hungerford was the sort to oblige rather than fight. Indeed, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small pouch.
“Release her, and you shall have your prize.”
“Throw it over now else you will be carrying home a corpse.”
Hungerford did as the rogue requested. “Now release her at once.” He seemed surprisingly confident, not the stuttering fool who had floundered under the weight of Ross’ frigid stare.
The rogue sneered. “Perhaps I should have a little fun with the lady first, no?”
“The hell you will.” Hungerford drew the sword from his walking cane and swiped the air, the action more like the exaggerated moves of an actor than a true buccaneer. “Perhaps you would care to fight me for the pleasure.”
Mr Hungerford did not sound at all like himself. He possessed the courage of a drunken sot and yet hadn’t had so much as a sip of coffee. But then his self-assured grin faded and his eyes grew wide, fearful.
The atmosphere changed.
A dark and dangerous energy pervaded the narrow space.
The rogue gasped and then a choking gurgle resonated in his throat.
“May I offer another suggestion?” Ross’ charismatic voice drifted towards her. “Release the lady now else I shall cut your throat from ear to ear.”
The clatter of metal hitting the ground gave Estelle the strength to rush forward. Once safely out of arm’s reach, she whipped around to see her hero dressed head-to-toe in black. He stood behind the rogue, his expre
ssion as menacing as the Devil. A trickle of blood ran from where Ross pressed his knife against the rogue’s throat. Rain lashed down upon them. Droplets dripped from the lock of hair hanging rakishly over Ross’ brow.
“Let me at him,” Mr Hungerford suddenly cried. “It is my honour he called into question.”
“This is not about restoring honour,” Ross chided. “What are you going to do? Challenge him to a duel?”
Hungerford slid the sword back into the sheath and handed the cane to Estelle. “I shall challenge him to a fistfight for the insult he has shown to Miss Brown.”
“Good God, man, he dug a knife into her back. Bow Street is the only place for him. After we’ve had a little scuffle, of course, where I will be forced to break his nose.”
“Non! Please, Monsieur,” the rogue blurted. “It is not my fault. I did not—”
“Be quiet, you devil.” In a shocking and highly uncharacteristic move, Mr Hungerford darted forward and slapped the rogue about the face. “We have no interest in anything you have to say.”
Ross dropped his hand and stepped back. “Then have at him if it eases your conscience.” The rogue raised his fists but then turned on his heels and fled the alley. A muttered string of curses left Ross’ lips. “Damnation. Now I’ve no choice but to chase after him.”
“I shall go. This is my fault after all.” Mr Hungerford snatched back his cane and darted off in pursuit before Estelle could catch her breath.
Estelle stared at Ross for a moment. From the frown marring his brow, he appeared equally confused by Mr Hungerford’s odd behaviour. “Were you following me?”